


Flows

by cartographicalspine



Series: The Hearthkeeper [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Despair, Gen, Introspection, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographicalspine/pseuds/cartographicalspine
Summary: A dwarven exile after the Battle of Ostagar reflects on surface rivers, duties failed and abandoned, and somehow being enough for her people.





	Flows

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a world state with all Origins surviving the Joining.

_Zinaita, you have the ingrained power of your noble birth in you. Zinaita, do not fear to lead, because the ancestors chose you to be born to higher ranks. You were granted this for a reason; extend your reach at your will. I know you shall do your House and people proud._

Her father’s words at her commissioning still echo mockingly in her ears, louder and louder with all of Ostagar weeping calamity and destruction around her. The darkspawn have not yet quit the field and yet the birds have started their slow, patient circling overhead. Beside her, Brosca is ashen beneath a layer of black, stinking blood, one arm clutched close to her chest as she waits and watches the dwindling horde. Like floodwaters, like the first watery river she saw on her way down from Orzammar. She’d never seen a water source like that before, and she’d never seen the darkspawn in multitudes either.

Zinaita nods and they move, on to the next clearing before the throng regroups; it really is more like creeping between magma flows than rising rivers, and she misses home so sharply that it takes her a moment to catch her breath. Never mind that home is family is Orzammar is gone forever.

Between them, they manage their unconscious elves well enough, though Tabris has lost what remained of her color and Surana’s chest is barely rising anymore. Fleetingly, she thinks back to the ruined tower and wonders what became of Alistair and the others. Amell, Cousland, Mahariel, their strengths and weaknesses which made them the team for the beacon. The ones who were supposed to be safe.

Brosca has started hacking on the poison again, low and quiet but still bound to attract attention. Zinaita purses her lips and meets her eyes, willing it to pass, and so it does.

_Zinaita, I trust you with this command because you have the capacity for it. Do not falter._

Tabris is leaving more of herself in the dirt behind them than is left in her wounded belly. Surana has broken himself trying to pull them all through the horde once the tide overwhelmed them. Brosca is down to one arm, no weapons, and a vigorous coat of blood. Zinaita has nothing but her father’s ingrained lessons keeping her on her ruined knee and ankle. This is where she has led her command, no different than Orzammar and the Deep Roads and Trian. She has never once lived up to her responsibilities ( _being a leader is more than being loved by the people, Father_ ).

King Cailan is gone and so is (King) Trian, and now she cannot reach Loghain or Bhelen for them, and now she has no strength or power to do so, either. Just as well. This is no Proving Ground, where she thought she knew her team; no Deep Roads excursion, where she thought she knew her men. She definitely didn’t know her enemy as she thought she did. Strengths, weaknesses, strategies, synergy…

Her back straightens, and she casts about wildly. Brosca sees her anxiety and furrows her bleeding brow questioningly. Quickly, Zinaita gestures at the dash of blue still visible on her armor, then makes a drinking motion. Her fingers dot imaginary sparks in the fire-golden night.

Brosca’s a keen shadow when she needs to be, an artist in not being seen. Zinaita tries not to think about where and why she’s honed this and wishes Orzammar the way it used to be.

She returns with lyrium vials bright in her dirt-streaked palms. Carefully, Zinaita coaxes it down Surana’s throat and wonders if the ancestors and the Stone can still hear her, if they even want to. So she just  _wills_  it as hard as she can as the darkspawn ebb and drift away in the distance.

...and he draws a trembling, hungry breath, and she feels something dark and shivering sweep past them, like a second breath come to them from the lingering lives flickering away all around them. Each wave is a relief and a horror to her, but he doesn't miss a single one of those gulping breaths, and then a glowing warmth begins to shudder over them, enough that she can stand again without wavering. Enough that Brosca isn’t struggling with her own breaths, enough that Tabris stops bleeding out in her arms.

Enough that when dawn finds them, deeper and deeper within the Wilds despite the horde still droning among the gnarled trees somewhere, they’re all still breathing, healing, surviving the floodwaters. Zinaita doesn’t know making her House or people or Wardens proud, but she knows the extent and will of her reach, and tonight, it’s enough.


End file.
